Spray Paint, Spaghetti, and Sherlock Holmes
by AgentNerd
Summary: Raz was tired of listening to what the media said about Sherlock Holmes. He knew the truth. When he finally decides to do something about it, he finds that he might not be as alone as he thought.


_Fraud_.

Certain words had been swimming around in the air lately, many mouths united by the same whisperings they released into the air.

_Fake._

Heavy feelings of disgust, and outrage, and disbelief held steadfast with many of the people that he passed by in the streets; but there was a slight undercurrent of something else: pity? Doubt? He couldn't exactly be sure.

_Liar._

It was the only story in the news, right now. Repeated over and over, the ideas becoming firmly rooted in those too weak to question it, too weak to discover the truth for themselves.

The suicide of Sherlock Holmes, or more importantly, the suicide of the _fraud, fake, liar_ Sherlock Holmes.

Raz wasn't weak. He'd stopped filching the papers from stands, and watching the news, because he simply couldn't put up with the rubbish all of those monkey-reporters-in-suits kept trying to feed to everyone.

After all, they had never even met the man.

It had been three years ago, almost to the day, but his first encounter with Sherlock still sprang out vividly in his mind whenever he chose to recall it…

_His finger pressed down on the nozzle of the bottle, his arm moving in wide, sweeping arcs as the imaginings in his head slowly started to take form in reality. The spray clung to the wall, cobalt-blue sharply contrasting with concrete-grey. Without meaning to, Raz started to slip into a trance-like state of focus, his concentration so great that everything in his surroundings dissolved, he and his art the only things remaining. He was so absorbed in his work that he never heard the footsteps of a man sneaking up behind him._

"_Interesting concept…Fauvism, is it?"_

_Immediately, Raz spun around, his painting coming to a halt, and he snatched his bag up, poised to run. The man that stood before him was tall, with sharp features and a dark shock of black, curly hair against pale skin. He sported a long, dark coat complimented by a blue scarf. Subconsciously Raz stored the color of that scarf somewhere deep in his mind, already figuring out designs and locations where it would look good._

_The man was looking at him, expecting a response. He didn't look like a copper, but Raz couldn't be sure. So he said the first thing that came to his mind._

"_What?"_

_An annoyed and slightly frustrated look was sent his way, but it only lasted for a short moment, "Fauvism? Is that the technique you're trying to achieve with this?" he waved his hands towards the half-completed piece of graffiti._

"_Um, yeah…Er, I mean, yes, it is. Excuse me, but who're you?" _

"_Sherlock Holmes." The man said in an almost bored tone, then continued, "I've heard you were the best at your craft."_

_Raz was still apprehensive of this Holmes fellow, but he decided to play along, "'ave you?"_

"_Yes, and I need to know," He paused and whipped a mobile phone out from his pocket, "What kind of paint these were done with." _

_He held the phone out, the illuminated screen showing a picture of a tiled floor spattered with dark green spray paint and…was that blood? Before he had too much time to dwell on it, though, the man had already turned to the next picture: a cat covered in the same dark green color._

_He immediately knew the paint that was used, down to the exact name of the color, but he tried not to let on. "Why should I do this for you?"_

"_Because a man's life depends on it."_

_Raz just stared at the man, not quite believing his words._

_Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat and tried again, "Because your mother's medical bills need to be paid, and I'll compensate you for your information."_

_Raz was shocked at the man's words, but by carefully disciplining his features only an incredulous glint in his eyes escaped from his control, "How'd you know that? You a copper?"_

"_No, not quite. And I know that, in the same way that I know that you used to attend the Wimbledon College of Arts, but then your mother became terminally ill, and you couldn't afford tuition and the private care bills at the same time, could you? So you dropped out and found a living as a drug dealer, but only for a short time, someone convinced you to stop, probably your mother. Since then you've been doing a variety of odd jobs, but you still have an interest in art, so you display it on buildings in order to express yourself… I make it a habit to observe things, _Raz_. You're still struggling financially: now, I will pay you if you can tell me what type of paint this is."_

_And Raz took another look at the picture, and then he did. Sherlock Holmes nodded to himself, then pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket and handed them over. Raz was shocked by the amount of money that now rested in his hands, and looked up from it for a moment to…what…thank him?_

_But all he caught was the long tail of a coat sweeping around a corner._

That was the first time he had met Sherlock, but it certainly hadn't been the last. It wasn't very frequent, of course, but every few months he would be approached by the consulting detective for his knowledge of different paints and artists. The more he helped the man, and the more time he spent with him, the more he began to understand his methods. In a fit of curiosity, Raz had once tried to implement his own observation skills on some passerby, but quickly found that deducing was a lot more difficult than Sherlock had made it seem.

It was too difficult to fake.

And as he stood in middle of the sidewalk, forcing all of the other pedestrians to maneuver around his immobile form, Raz felt quite alone in his views. As he stood, mulling over these thoughts, he began to grow frustrated. Why couldn't they see? Why wouldn't they _believe_?

Then an idea hit him, and just as all memorable ideas are formed, it came upon him swiftly and abruptly and in a most spontaneous manner. He became very anxious and excited at the wonderful thought that had wriggled its way into his mind, and the desperately wanted to put it in to action, but he knew he would have to wait.

It was excruciatingly tedious and boring, but Raz forced himself to wait until the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon and few people could be seen walking the streets. Only then could he pull his plan off. He slung his bag over his shoulder and set out for what he knew to be the ideal spot, one where people were _bound_ to notice what he had to see; a spot where they would be _forced_ to challenge their strictly-monitored thoughts.

It wasn't vandalism, Raz thought as he pulled the bright yellow spray-paint out from the depths of his duffel, it was art. It was never wrong, so long as someone looked at his work, liked it, appreciated it. And someone nearly always did. He pressed the nozzle down and started to cover the brick wall in a thin layer of the paint, straight, short strokes with corners as tight and neat as he could make them.

He put every ounce of his skill into the project; but he made it as quick as he could, because while this was the prime location for his art, it was also a very risky location to be displaying it. Raz loved the rush though, of going against expectations, of nearly getting caught, of always getting away with it. No fancy art school could ever give him that.

As luck would have it, he had just enough supplies to get the job done, and standing back to admire his handiwork he gave a short grunt of contentment. It was exactly how he had envisioned it in his head. It would hold up very well.

Raz was so happy with what he had accomplished; he couldn't keep the wild grin off of his face the entire way back to his flat.

…

It was big news, the next day.

This time, as he wandered around the city, the only sounds that graced his ears were snippets of others' conversations:

_Did you hear about the graffiti on the front of that oh-so-big important bank? _(Raz honestly didn't remember the name of the establishment, and he didn't bother to pay close attention to it when it was mentioned).

_The CCTV's didn't catch a thing! It's outrageous! _(Oh, he had forgotten about those cameras. That was a turn of luck in his favor, then)

_It's bright yellow, you can't miss it! Yes yes, no one saw it happen!_

'_Says something about that fake detective. Y'know, the one that jumped off a building a few months back? That's what I heard…_

_I saw it with my own eyes! Whoever did it had a lot of nerve…_

_Have you seen what it says…?_

All of that and more, Raz heard. Some reactions were positive, some were negative, and some just sounded outright confused about the situation, but deep inside Raz felt very proud about the hype that he had created.

A jarring bump woke Raz from his observations. He apologized to the woman he had accidentally knocked into, and found himself standing at the edge of a rather large accumulating crowd. They were all staring at the same building, some shouting into phones, some taking pictures, and some chatting excitedly to whomever happened to be next to them. Raz looked up and suppressed the smile that was threatening to rise to the surface.

It was the biggest and most widely viewed project he had ever done, and it was the one that Raz felt the best about, as well. Because there, on that very prominent, very visible building were the bright yellow, blocky letters that spelled out,

"I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES".

And as incredible as it was to see during the night, it was even more fantastic during the day. People were reacting so strongly to it, and that was exactly what he wanted. It was better than he had ever hoped.

That message remained on the building for nearly a week before clean-up efforts began.

…

After that first message, Raz was itching to do another.

It wasn't something he could do all of the time, though. He still had to take care of his mother in the hospital, and was still trying to look for a new job, as he had been just recently fired from his last one. Eventually, though, he was able to get around to it, and it was only two more pieces in before the newspapers started to become interested. It was nothing extraordinary, just a small article in the corner of one of the pages, but it was enough to start spreading the word even more.

It was a good bet that whenever a new message appeared, people would automatically flock to it. Raz had started to branch out. More diverse messages started to appear:

"I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES".

"MORIARTY IS REAL".

"RICHARD BROOKS WAS A FRAUD".

One night, he was in the middle of one such creation, in a small alley between a couple of shops, when all of a sudden a voice sounded behind him.

"So you're the one who's been paintin' those messages," The words made him whip around and prepare to run, but the sight of the man holding his hands up in a defensive gesture stalled him. "Hey, don't run mate, I come in peace."

"What do you want?"

The man lowered his hands and looked Raz straight in the eyes, "I have a proposition for you. See, that wall you're paintin' on? That's my neighbor's." He pointed behind himself, "This is my own little restaurant, here. Now, I really don't want to see a kid like you getting in trouble…"

"What, you're gonna' make me clean it up?"

"No, nothing like that. In fact," a grin came over the man's face, "I want you to do another."

And within the space of those next ten minutes, Raz had arranged his first paid job in months.

It was on the windows. Two large panes of glass that created a transparent barrier between the restaurant and the street outside. Angelo didn't give him much of a guideline to go on: he just basically promised to pay Raz quite handsomely if he made it look good.

The washable window paint he was using wasn't quite the same as the spray paint he was normally accustomed to, but it allowed him to experiment with his techniques a bit. He had started quite late in the night, and about two hours in, Angelo, who had been supervising his work, had fallen asleep in one of the booths, his body bent forward in a very awkward position so that his head and arms were sprawled out over the table. By the time Raz had finished with his work, the sky had acquired a slight tinge of pink.

Raz climbed down from the chair he had been standing on and pulled a napkin out of a dispenser to wipe his paint-stained hands. He took a long look at his work, but couldn't see the full view of it from his position. It was a bit difficult, painting everything backwards, but Angelo had said it should be readable from the street. He looked over at the restaurant-owner, whose loud snoring was the only thing that cut through the silence of the room.

He made the short trek across the room and shook the sleeping man's shoulder. With a loud snort, Angelo jolted awake, wiping a stray trickle of drool from his chin.

"Hm…wha'…oh, you done, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"What time is it?" Angelo mumbled, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes. Raz glanced at his wristwatch.

"Six a.m."

"Oh," the man stood and looked Raz up and down for a moment, no doubt noticing his scrawny frame. His mother's bills had risen, quite recently, and without Sherlock's payments he'd had to skip a few meals. "Well, how 'bout some breakfast? It's on the house." Raz accepted, and went to go sit at the bar while Angelo headed back into the kitchen to prepare their food.

It was silent for quite a few minutes, save for the sound of food sizzling as it met with a hot pan. Raz could see Angelo through the small window that led through to the kitchen, but he chose to fix his eyes on a rack of spare ketchup bottles stored behind the counter.

"He was an incredible man, Sherlock was," Angelo said over his cooking.

Raz grunted in agreement.

"He helped me out of more tight spots than I can remember. Helped me get this job, too, but that's a story for another day," the restaurant-owner emerged from the kitchen with two plates heaping with hot food. It was one of the best things Raz had seen in a long time.

"There's no way he was faking it—too genius for that. The way he'd figure things out…d'you ever see him at it?"

Raz swallowed a mouthful of sausage, "Yeah…a few times, actually."

"Brilliant, Sherlock was. Did a lot of good."

"The papers don't think so." The sneer was evident in his voice.

"Yeah, well. I never cared what the papers thought before, and I'm not going to start now."

"Hmm," Raz's fork scraped the last bits of food off the bottom of his plate, just as Angelo finished up his own breakfast. The man stood up and took the empty dishes back into the kitchen, where they were deposited into the sink with a clatter.

"Let's go see how it turned out then, yeah?" Angelo said as he returned, gesturing to the front windows. He unlocked the front door, and together they ventured out to the curb and faced the restaurant. The rosy light of dawn made the glass seem to glow, enhancing the artwork that it now held.

A large deerstalker hat, the same type that Sherlock had made famous, curved in thick strokes across the window. Bold, sweeping yellow letters ran along the hat, spelling out a slightly modified form of the message he had put on that bank just a few weeks ago, "ANGELO'S BELIEVES IN SHERLOCK HOLMES". Bright red spatters surrounded the hat, looking at first like bloodstains until your eyes travelled to the very bottom of the window where strands of spaghetti and meatballs curled along the bottom of the frame. The last part had been completely Raz's idea, and he thought it fit quite nicely.

The strong hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he viewed his latest creation.

Angelo seemed very pleased and impressed with the work, and let out an exclamation of joy as he briefly clapped an arm around Raz's shoulders.

"Bloody brilliant! This is better than what I imagined, and in one night! Just…" he fumbled for the right words to say, "bloody brilliant!"

The artist couldn't help fully grinning now, and the two men stood outside for a while longer before heading in to arrange Raz's pay.

He soon became a regular at Angelo's, eating there almost every day. The restaurant-owner always gave him a heavily discounted price on his meals, and Raz enjoyed watching people's reactions to his art as he ate his food at the table right next to the window.

It was only about a week into this new routine, when Angelo came over to Raz's table, took his order, and then sat down in the chair across from him.

"A lot of people have complimented me about your artwork." He started off with.

Raz nodded, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

"Well, you know the bookshop just down the street?"

"Yeah," he often passed it on his walk to Angelo's.

"The owner, Harold, he's a good mate of mine. He came in here the other day, asking about it—the art, I mean. Really impressed with it. So impressed, in fact, that he was wondering if you could put some up in his windows, too."

Raz opened his mouth to answer, but Angelo quickly interrupted, "I didn't give him your name, if you're wonderin'. Just said I'd have to ask you. And it _is_ completely up to you, but Harold said he'd be willing to pay."

He hardly had to think it over. "I'll do it."

And that's how, two nights later, Raz found himself shaking the hand of the kindly old bookshop owner. Three days after that, it was the woman who owned the wig shop. Then the brother and sister who ran the pharmacy down the street. He was finally starting to catch up on the medical bills. The more people Raz made art for, the more referrals he got for new clients. And he realized something.

People _did_ believe.

There were many, many people who believed in Sherlock Holmes. With each new job he did, Raz heard new stories about how the famous consulting detective helped people in one way or another.

"_They were after me for money, said they'd hurt my little girl if I didn't pay up. He just took care of them."_

"_Someone broke into my shop. Took everything I had. He found the guy, got everything back for me, I'm still so thankful."_

"_He saved my sister's life. She got mugged on the way home from work, and suddenly he was there, and he sent them running."_

"…_and he said I didn't have to pay him a penny."_

People believed in Sherlock Holmes

He was not a fraud, or a fake, or a liar. He really helped a lot of people, Raz thought as he finished his latest masterpiece on a shop window.

SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS A GOOD MAN

Maybe it was time people started helping him.

…

**Started: January 23, 2012**

**Completed: August 2, 2013**

**Hello! As you can see, I started writing this just a short while after watching Reichenbach. Now, the day after the series three teaser has been released, it is finally published. Sometimes my ideas…take a while. **

**As for Raz's mother, I live in America, so we have to pay for everything when we get sick. I'm not an expert on the UK, but I do understand that you have socialized healthcare…the NHS, yes? I had originally just had Raz having to pay for his mother's hospital bills, but halfway through writing I realized that wouldn't happen, would it? So I modified the wording a little bit so that Raz would be paying for private care, instead of just general medical bills. I hope that works, but if not then just pass it off as artistic interpretation. And, as always, I own nothing.**


End file.
